


all of it and everything

by zoicite



Category: The Locked Tomb Trilogy | Gideon the Ninth Series - Tamsyn Muir
Genre: F/F, Harrow the Ninth Spoilers (Locked Tomb Trilogy), Multiple Orgasms, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn with Feelings, Post-Canon, Soul Sex, Vaginal Fingering, Vaginal Fisting, perfect lyctorhood
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-26
Updated: 2021-01-26
Packaged: 2021-03-18 14:53:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,224
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28994004
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zoicite/pseuds/zoicite
Summary: “What do you want?” Harrow asked, and without even a second of pause, without a single thought beyondyoursandmore, Gideon said: “Everything. I want it all.”
Relationships: Gideon Nav/Harrowhark Nonagesimus
Comments: 21
Kudos: 132
Collections: TLT Kink Meme





	all of it and everything

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the [TLT Kink Meme](https://tlt-kink.dreamwidth.org/), for the prompt "Gideon gets fisted."

Gideon was already lost by the time Harrow asked her question. She’d come once already, a delicious burst on Harrow’s tongue, but Harrow’s mouth still sucked at her thighs and when Harrow slid two fingers into Gideon, Gideon shuddered and groaned. This wasn’t the night for quick release. The stage had been set, the doors were flung open; Harrow was _in it_ and Gideon intended to get lost in Harrow for good, hoped she was never found again. 

“What do you want?” Harrow asked, teeth pressed to Gideon’s hip, and without even a second of pause, without a single thought beyond _yours_ and _more_ , Gideon said: “Everything. I want it all.”

It wasn’t really a question Gideon expected Harrow to ask in that moment. By now they knew each other inside and out, quite literally, and Harrow hardly ever needed to ask a thing. Gideon had won the freakin’ lottery, had everything she could ever dream of, and more that she’d never dared. She had Harrow over her, her hand in Harrow’s hair as Harrow’s unpainted mouth pressed sucking kisses to the naked skin of Gideon’s chest. She had Harrow in her, Harrow’s soul bound up in hers, twisted so tight and so well that there were moments where Gideon couldn’t tell where she ended and Harrow began. Gideon had Harrow’s undivided attention at last, Harrow’s entire focus and now Harrow’s fingers were-- _oh_ , that was good. Did they know it could be so good, those first Lyctors all those years ago in that creepy lab?

No, obviously not. 

If they had Harrow-and-Gideon, Gideon-and-Harrow, never would have come to pass. Cytherea would not have done what she did if she was Cytherea-and-Loveday, Loveday-and-Cytherea. There would have been no need for it, no need for Mercymorn or Augustine’s betrayal, and Gideon probably never would have been born. If they’d known, God’s Lyctors would have been far too busy in their ten-thousand year long orgy to worry about being weird and awful and deadly.

Gideon’s brain barely skimmed those thoughts, grazed over them before the touch of Harrow’s hand and the press of Harrow’s fingers yanked her back to _Harrow-and-Gideon, Gideon-and-Harrow, and Harrow, and Harrow, Harrow, Harrow--_

All that was to say, she didn’t examine _I want it all_ as she maybe should have done. She would thank herself for it later, because while Gideon’s brain had left the building to make way for what felt like the ridiculously impossible expansion of every single nerve in her beloved body, for her heart to send all of her blood to the places that needed it most, Harrow somehow managed to still hold onto at least part of her brain, and she examined Gideon’s words in Gideon’s stead. 

Harrow paused what she was doing and looked up at Gideon, bright yellow eyes blazing. “All?” she asked. “What sort of all?”

“Yes,” Gideon hissed, again without thought, not at all the right answer. Harrow stopped moving and Gideon shifted, began to work her hips, desperate to _feel_ the press of Harrow’s fingers within her. Two wasn’t enough. Nothing would ever be enough after everything it took to get to this place, to this moment, in this body and with this person.

Gideon felt Harrow rummaging around inside her, searching for the answers Gideon’s mouth failed to provide. Harrow still couldn’t read her thoughts, not even when the doors were wide open and welcoming her in, but they could feel each other out, pluck at headstrings and heartstrings (and cuntstrings?--No. It was true, but it sounded awful), and in the end it was nearly the same.

Harrow considered Gideon as she turned her wrist, fingers turning with it and lighting up all of Gideon’s insides. Gideon could barely focus on Harrow’s face, but in those moments she could, she loved what she saw. Harrow rarely wore the paint now--it had been years since Harrow’s body set foot on the Ninth, even longer for Gideon’s. Gideon’s body had travelled the world without her in it, and now it was hers again, and even though she should be used to it, when Harrow stood before her, unpainted and unveiled, Gideon fell to her knees, unable to resist pressing her face and her fingers to every inch of bare skin, to each sharp point, each hateful angle. Those angles were deceptive. Gideon understood that now. They were misunderstood angles, hateful--yes, definitely--but perfect, cutting just right, a perfect pierce to the heart every time. And now--

Gideon knew that Harrow was pulling at the right spots, the right strings, the very answers Gideon wanted her to find. Harrow was finding the truth--already known, already understood, and still a surprise each time it was uncovered. Gideon wanted everything. _Everything_ Harrow could give. She wanted to feel herself tied tight to Harrow, to feel their souls irreparably tangled, inextricable and everlasting. She felt Harrow’s heart beat in time with hers, felt it race when hers raced, slow when hers slowed. One flesh and Gideon hoped and prayed to that empty cave that was once a tomb that they never found their end. 

And in the meantime, Gideon would have it all.

Harrow’s brow furrowed as she considered her options. There were many roads one could take to _everything_ and Gideon hadn’t provided any navigation, no favored route. 

Harrow slipped a third finger in beside the first two and said, “Like this, Griddle?”

And that old name, spoken at a time like this and in a tone like that--the next crest hit Gideon hard and sudden and she pushed her hips down onto Harrow’s fingers and cried out in surprise as nerves fired, exploded, sweet bursts and electric lines. Harrow cried out too, her body shaking over Gideon, mouth pressed tight and wet against Gideon’s side.

“Yes, like that,” Gideon managed once she’d stopped shaking, once her limbs started to feel something like her own again. “Like that, but more.” It wasn’t enough. It was never quite enough. It always felt like there was more, like she could take more, needed more. 

Above her Harrow still shook and twitched, as Gideon’s pleasure sparked through her. There was the slightest delay, they’d found. They could shut this down, close the doors (but no locks. Not a single lock to be found here) and for the most part they wouldn’t feel a thing. Gideon could stub her toe and Harrow wouldn’t curse in pain. It would be impossible to function if those doors were open all the time, so they were usually kept almost entirely shut, but when they were open--when they flung the gates wide and let everything pour through--the wave rolled through Harrow seconds after it crested and spilled over in Gideon. 

Harrow hadn’t been touched yet, not at all, not once, but Gideon had learned that Harrow almost liked it better like this, taking her share of Gideon’s release, pushing Gideon over again and again until neither of them could take any more, not a single touch, and when it was over, Harrow would let Gideon take her into her arms. She’d let Gideon hold her tight against her chest, flesh to flesh and heart to heart and, most importantly, soul to soul.

But not yet.

Gideon needed more and Harrow gave it to her. A fourth finger, and the stretch of it was so good, always so fucking good. Gideon moaned, long and low, and then Harrow began to move and Gideon knew now where this was going, and knew she wouldn’t be able to hold out until the end. If she gave in again now, if she came again, would she be able to make it? Or would she ruin it all, pushing them over into _too good, too much, don’t touch_ before they arrived at their destination?

Harrow’s fingers curled and her thumb swiped Gideon’s swollen clit, and when Harrow spoke her voice was low and raspy in a way that sent a thrill up Gideon’s spine. She said: “Come on, Griddle. Give me everything. I want it all.”

There was no holding back after that. The pressure was too good, the twist and the curl of Harrow’s fingers, and Gideon reached for Harrow as she shattered, as shards of pleasure scattered out and spread through her, cut and sliced and set her alight, and when she came out on the other side, Harrow was still there, fingers stretching, thumb mercifully still. Harrow’s face was flushed and Gideon’s eyes were bright in Harrow’s sockets, hot and golden. It always surprised Gideon to catch them looking back at her, to see the eyes that had been hers for so long, now so completely Harrow’s. 

Gideon would give Harrow everything. Body and heart, soul and eyes, and sometimes, sometimes, Harrow threw open those doors and she gave it all back, a surge, a shiver, a great rush of Harrow. 

Harrow surged forward now, her knees bringing her up until she learned over Gideon, until she found Gideon’s mouth in a bright bruising kiss. Gideon could taste herself on Harrow’s lips and Harrow’s tongue, as Harrow’s fingers worked within her. The pressure was already building again. She came so much faster, could last so much longer, with the doors open, with Harrow in her head and her heart, pushing the build, working her up until it was too much, and then just as quickly, not enough. 

It wasn’t enough.

“Okay,” Gideon said. Harrow scraped her teeth against Gideon’s mouth, sucked at her lower lip. 

Gideon was ready. She could feel that she was soaked and ready. She could hear it. If she paused to think for just a moment, she would feel herself on Harrow’s fingers. She broke their kiss, swallowed and said it again: “Okay. I’m ready. Give me more.”

Harrow didn’t ask if she was sure. Gideon was so fucking sure, she’d set up a neon sign right in front of their open doors, lights blaring, blinking, _take me, take me, take me now._

Harrow kissed her once more and then shifted back down to kneel between Gideon’s spread legs. She brushed her thumb over Gideon’s clit, once and then again, and watched the way that Gideon gasped, the way that she writhed. One more time and then the thumb was gone. When Harrow began to remove her fingers from Gideon, Gideon almost stopped her, but Harrow stilled her with a hand low on Gideon’s belly. And then she began the slide back in.

Gideon didn’t think it would be that different. In the universe’s infinite spectrum of hands, Harrow’s hands were unquestionably on the small side, so the most coherent portion of Gideon’s brain reasoned that Harrow’s entire hand would not be that much different than four of Harrow’s fingers. The thing was, the most coherent portion of Gideon’s brain was not the best part or the brightest part and that was--

 _Holy shit_ , oh, _holy shit_.

Gideon’s brain was so fucking wrong, because this was so much more. It took her a moment to realize she was cursing out loud and she pushed a few more words through, words like “don’t stop,” and “don’t you _dare_ fucking stop,” just in case Harrow heard the swearing and somehow managed to misinterpret her meaning.

Harrow understood. 

Harrow felt it with her and Harrow didn’t stop. She pressed forward and Gideon felt herself stretch to accommodate, moaned long and low as the widest part of Harrow’s hand slipped in. She spread her legs wide and welcomed Harrow home. 

“Oh, God,” she said, and then thought better of that, and said: “Oh, Harrow,” instead.

Harrow, she realized, was holding her breath, but she let it out when Gideon spoke, a great long sigh, and then Harrow began to move. 

Gideon shook her head and pushed herself up on her elbows. 

“Wait,” she said. “Wait, before you--I have to-- _fuck_ \--I need to see it.” She wouldn’t rely on her imagination for this. She would see it, memorize it, remember it always, as though there wouldn’t ever be another chance. As though Harrow might never want to do this again.

If Gideon paused to think, to listen to the unsteady rhythm of Harrow’s breathing and the shuddering beat of Harrow’s heart, Gideon would know that she needn’t worry, that Harrow would absolutely agree to this again, but Gideon couldn’t pause, couldn’t think. She needed to _see_.

She thanked herself for years of crunches as she carefully curled forward to catch a glimpse. 

Her entire body twitched in stunned delight at the sight of it. Harrow’s hand was buried deep within Gideon, gone from sight. Harrow’s hand was enveloped, embraced, welcomed. Swallowed. Gideon’s cunt pressed tight around Harrow’s wrist, and Harrow’s skin was shining, slick with Gideon and all they’d done to get this far.

“Oh.” She reached for Harrow’s arm and Harrow let her, let her curl her fingers around Harrow’s forearm, let her guide Harrow’s hand, shifting her arm forward and then back, testing. “Oh, _shit_ Harrow. Are you feeling this?” 

It was more words than she’d managed in a while, but they had to be said. She had to know. This was so much, Harrow pressing her open, Harrow on all sides, Harrow in her head and her heart and her cunt. Harrow in her soul. It was everything, and Gideon couldn’t fucking believe that she still wanted more.

Gideon fell back against the pillows of the bed. She brought her arms up, curled her hands around the rungs of the headboard, held on tight and let Harrow lead her home. 

“Is it good?” Harrow asked and Gideon choked out: “You know it is.”

Harrow was quiet for a moment, considering. Her eyes, molten gold, watched the slide of her hand in Gideon, and Gideon watched Harrow. She didn’t expect any more from Harrow, couldn’t imagine what more Harrow could give, but after a long pause, Harrow looked up at Gideon, her sharp angles poised and ready to cut, and Gideon bared her metaphorical wrists and offered her veins.

“It’s everything,” Harrow agreed. She said it quietly, and her voice was as unsteady as Gideon had ever heard it. She was as lost in this as Gideon. Gideon would never be alone again. “You’re everything.”

Gideon opened her mouth to respond, but Harrow chose that moment to shift, to twist the angle of her wrist and the words she’d planned to say--Stupid insufficient words: “No, _you_ are.” Ridiculous, awful, and absolutely her truth--were lost in another helpless moan. She was Harrow’s creature, entirely Harrow’s, always. Every shift of Harrow’s hand, the overwhelming pressure of every pulse and every push reminded her that Harrow was everywhere, _everywhere_. Gideon was so fucking full of Harrow, maximum occupancy limit exceeded, but fuck it was cozy in there. Harrow-and-Gideon, Gideon-and-Harrow, and Harrow, and _Harrow_.

The noises she was making were desperate and pathetic, embarrassing, continuous, non-stop. She begged Harrow to end her, to bring them over that edge one last time. She knew that she couldn’t possibly survive it, felt that her heart might explode right out of her chest, but she wanted it anyway. Bring on her destruction. Her flesh was Harrow’s and so was her end. 

Oh, that was good, that was--yeah, fuck--very good and she hoped she remembered it after her resurrection. She hoped she remembered to tell Harrow once she stood safely on the opposite shore.

Gideon released the headboard and pressed her fingers to her clit. She rubbed herself in time with the press of Harrow’s hand and gasped every time her fingertips brushed up against Harrow’s arm. She was so close, so close, and her fingers moved frantically, and Harrow cried out when Gideon came, when Gideon rocked back against the bed, bright bursts of Harrow in her cunt and her gut, behind Drearburh black eyes, in her heart and her limbs. This explosion of Harrow, this bliss, expanded and contracted within her, and Gideon felt her body convulse back on the bed, and she reached down for Harrow’s arm, held her in place. She listened to Harrow moan as another orgasm rolled through her, heart to arm to fingertips, cunt to gut to heart. 

Harrow collapsed against Gideon, her one free hand pressed between her own legs, her other arm held tight by Gideon. Fuck, fuck, it was too much. It was too much all at once, and Harrow was gasping, sucking in air as though she was having a hard time filling her lungs, as though she’d spent too long submerged underwater and had only just struggled up to the surface again. 

Gideon stared up on the ceiling and waited for the waves to subside, for the tide to pull back again and expose the shore. She waited until she felt her breathing fall in sync with Harrow’s, felt their hearts beat as one. 

“I’m a little afraid to move,” Harrow admitted. She still sounded breathless, and any other time Gideon would have accused her of trying to impersonate Coronabeth. Instead Gideon said: “It’s okay. I’ll help.”

She eased Harrow back, set the pace until she felt it again, that gorgeous stretch at the base of Harrow’s palm, and then the easy slide of her fingers. 

Gideon’s body was still twitching a little, nerves still firing at random, sparking within and throughout. She reached for Harrow and Harrow came easily, scrambled up and settled down along Gideon’s length, her face pressed to Gideon’s chest. They stayed like that for a long time as they revelled in the grounding press of skin to skin. 

Eventually Gideon said: “I think that was it.”

Harrow was quiet a moment longer, her cheek pressed to Gideon’s breast, ear over Gideon’s heart. Gideon needed to get up. She needed to make sure her legs still worked, make sure her pipes still functioned. She needed to clean them up and bring them back to life.

She didn’t move. Neither did Harrow.

“What?” Harrow finally asked.

“That’s what the old Lyctors were aiming toward all along,” Gideon said. Their doors were still open and Harrow was fading. Gideon felt it, the heavy weight of sleep descending, the curtain that threatened to fall. She wasn’t ready to shut the doors, but she fought against it, pressed up against the weights, wore that curtain as her cloak.

“Hm?” Harrow murmured. Her eyes began to drift shut.

Fuck it, they were Lyctors and Gideon’s legs were fine. And the truth was, even if for some reason they weren’t fine, they’d still be fine soon enough. Harrow’s soul would see to that.. They’d wake up sticky and it’d be gross, but it was worth it. It was worth it to lie there, Gideon’s body still thrumming, a little emptier than it was before, but still so fucking full. It was worth it to lie there with the doors thrown wide, to feel Harrow’s contentment settle over her skin.

“One end,” Gideon said. She pressed her lips to Harrow’s hair and waited. 

One beat, two, and then Harrow snorted, soft and lazy. Her fingers pinched at Gideon’s side. Gideon snickered and knocked her hand away.

“ _Gideon._ ”

There it was. Gideon shut her eyes and savored the moment, the sweet sound of her name on Harrow’s tongue. 

All of it. 

Everything.


End file.
